The Songs of Ered Luin
by Bazylia de Grean
Summary: A two-part 'The Tales of Ered Luin' epilogue.
1. Peace

_Special thanks to **DownliftedAndUnderwhelmed** for beta-reading this fanfic :)_

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**Peace**

**E**veryone else from the company seemed to have found some measure of peace there: the hobbit, having taken to elvish poetry and songs and tales; the wizard, evidently acquainted with the lord of the realm; his companions, who enjoyed the wine and a moment of peace and the mountain air. But for him, there was no peace there.

Thorin felt restless, as restless and he had not felt since leaving Ered Luin, since the beginning of this journey. So when his friends made merry and took their rest, he wandered across the valley aimlessly, neither looking at the passing elves nor speaking to them, and they in turn left him alone. There were many silver streams in the vale, not unlike those in the Blue Mountains, but their music did not bring him peace. And there were raging waterfalls, majestic and ominous, but seeing the boundless energy of the water did not soothe his troubled mind. It was as if something was waiting for him in that valley, only he did not know what it was and where to look for it.

And one afternoon, green and golden as the summer was at its height, he walked into the lower levels of Rivendell, where it was cool and shadowed, and the occasional beams of light shining through the trees made him think of pillars of fire. And though he was not especially sensitive to such things, even he felt the change of mood in this place. It was not sorrow, not precisely, but it evoked thoughtfulness all the same, and Thorin wondered what mysteries lay hidden there in the elven realm that were able to touch the heart of a dwarf.

Down, in the deepest corner of the vale, there was a simple stone laid on the ground, but there were no runes on it, and no signs at all, no ridiculous elvish scribbling, no letters of men. There was just fresh green moss creeping across the stone, and flowers and herbs growing around it, and he recognized camomile and balm, lavender and mint, and kingsfoil, and the curious mixture of the smells seemed painfully familiar.

There was someone coming, and Thorin tensed, not certain whether to leave or to stay; but the steps themselves were inaudible, and he heard only a soft rustle of material across the grass, and the quiet sound came to a halt beside him. When he turned, he saw an elven maid, dark-haired and fair of face, and when she nodded to him in greeting, he saw eyes of light grey like the most exquisite opals. Something about the woman reminded him of Elrond, and Thorin guessed she was the elven lord's kin.

"Mae govannen," she said gently. "Welcome."

He found enough courtesy to bow a little. "And welcome to you, lady." He did not harbour especially warm feelings towards the elves, but lord Elrond was kind to him and his friends, and, truth to be told, he did not hold any grudge against the elves either. In some aspects, Elrond reminded him of the lord of Grey Havens, Círdan the Shipwright, whom Thorin had come to respect.

"I see you are wary," the elven maid remarked. "But there were times when our people did work together, and there is proof of it still to be found across the realms, like at the door to Khazad-Dûm," she said, speaking his own reluctant thoughts. "You are not with your companions, Thorin Oakenshield," she spoke, pensive. "I thought my father's home brought peace to all that rest here."

So she was Elrond's daughter, Thorin thought, glad he had not offended her. "You know my name, lady, but I do not know yours," he said, not wishing to answer her unspoken question. No, there was no peace for him here, but it was not her concern.

"Forgive me." She smiled, and the smile broke through his reserve a little. "I am Arwen."

"At your service," he said and bowed, somewhat stiffly.

"At yours and your family's," she replied, with a slight curtsy and a friendly, slightly playful smile.

"What is this stone?" he asked, and right that moment it dawned on him it looked like a grave, and he regretted his question, though the realisation baffled him even more, for he knew that of all folk elves were the only ones that did not die.

"A grave," explained lady Arwen, and her smile turned sad.

"But your folk do not know death, lady, do they?"

"Ah, we can die, of wounds or sorrow," she answered, and for a moment the smile was gone from her face, and he guessed she must have lost someone; and he recalled he had not seen lord Elrond's wife anywhere, and wondered whether the grave was hers. "But one way or another, we go West," Elrond's daughter continued. "No, 'tis not the grave of an elf. My friend, a daughter of the race of men, is buried here." And with those words she stepped forward and knelt beside the grave, and brushed her fingers across the herbs and flowers. And then she leaned over and gently pulled the moss away from the stone, revealing a single mark, and Thorin held his breath for the sudden piercing pain in his chest.

"This mark..." he began, and let out the breath he was holding, and took another, and it could not go unnoticed, but for the moment he paid no heed. "What is this?"

"Yavanna's flower. Cast in iron by Aulë," the elven maid said softly, then turned towards him as she heard his shaky intake of breath, and looked at him thoughtfully, and slowly understanding filled her eyes, but Thorin turned away least he saw compassion in them.

"She passed in peace," the lady Arwen spoke gently. "And her last thoughts were of him that had cast the flower she wore in her hair in iron."

Thorin remained quiet. Surprisingly, there was no despair, no sorrow; there was nothing, and he felt hollow like an empty mine. What was the point of dwelling on wasted years and the past that could not be undone? He had his quest, there was a homeland to reclaim, and that was enough. It had to be. The memory of stone is long, but no matter how deeply something is carved into it, it can be erased. Something wet fell onto his lips, and he found it strange, for there was no rain, and found it even stranger that the little drops should taste of salt.

"She was at peace," the lady Arwen said. "And she wished peace on him, too, whoever he was," she added, pretending not to notice his reaction, and when Thorin glanced at her he saw she was still kneeling at the grave, not looking at him, as if she did not want to pry.

"Maybe there will be some other peace for him," he said eventually, when he knew his voice would not fail him and would not falter.

"He was of Durin's folk, wasn't he?" she asked gently.

"Aye, he was," Thorin replied quietly, his voice hoarse. "But whatever peace there will be for them, they will never share it."

"I wouldn't know about that," lady Arwen said softly. "But I know a tale of old, of an elven maid called Lúthien and a man named Beren, and I know that when he departed from this world, he waited for her."

There was a sudden bout of quiet, slightly feeble laughter, and Thorin was stunned to recognise it was his own. "She would have laughed so much at the comparison," he said, and though his mind felt numb, his voice recalled some of the fondness it used to hold when speaking of her.

The lady Arwen got up and turned to him, and smiled at him comfortingly, and briefly laid her hand on his shoulder. "She will wait, if the Valar allow it," she said, soothing.

But that was altogether too much, and Thorin stepped back, and let the laughter die on his lips, and let the fondness fade from his voice. And he filled the hollow cave that was his heart with the image of the lost home he was to reclaim, and rekindled the fire in his soul with the memory of the flames burning in the Arkenstone.

"I have a lost home waiting for me," he said, his face like stone, and his voice too was cold like stone.

But Elrond's daughter gave him a long look, her opal-grey eyes many years older than her face. "Yes, you have," she said quietly. "But is it really where you're looking for it, I wonder." And with that she turned and walked away, the skirts of her gown rustling against the grass.

And Thorin stood at the grave, but did not kneel by it, nor did he touch the mark etched into the stone. But long after the lady Arwen had left, he reached into an inner pocket of his robe, and took out a long-unused mithril bead, and plaited a strand of his hair, and clasped the bead onto it.


	2. Fire and Life

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**Fire and Life**

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I

**FIRE**

**. . .**

**S**he had sometimes thought about how it would be, but now, being in Lord Elrond's house, she knew there would be no illness, and no danger, and she was not afraid. Her life had been a good one, with much joy and laughter, and just enough pain to make her cherish happiness all the more, and she could go in peace because there were no regrets... Except that was not entirely true. There were no regrets but one.

Through all her life she had never done this, but now she did sometimes: she wondered what could have been and what would have been if she had chosen differently, and whether it would have been the slow painful process she had anticipated, which was why she had left. She wondered what would have been had she had more courage. She wondered if maybe that mistake had been the biggest she had ever made, and if what she had broken would ever mend, and what would be the punishment if not. But she knew she would soon find out, and so she let go.

After sitting vigil with people wounded and ill and dying, pain and death seemed old friends to her. But, maybe because for most of her life she had been trying to soothe the pain of others, she was spared pain in her final hours. And death came like an old friend, soft and quiet, gently closing her eyes for the last sleep, and her last breath was a plea and a blessing, and she was given the final grace to be able to say it whole.

"May Mahal keep you..."

. . .

The Lady Arwen, sitting vigil beside Run, looked at the human healer who suddenly seemed very small in a bed designed for elven height. The elderly woman's face was peaceful, as if she had been asleep, not dead.

Arwen looked at the healer's green kerchief, a stark contrast to the milky white curls, and at the symbol stitched on the material. The first rays of the sun poured into the room, and the light caught on an iron hair clasp, with a similar symbol wrought on it.

"Yavanna's flower," Arwen said softly, thoughtful, wondering what secrets this iron trinket held. "Cast in iron by Aulë..." Then, because the woman deserved it and because they had become friends after a fashion, and because the healer had been kind, and because there was no one else to do it, in silence Arwen pleaded for the human healer to be granted one last blessing.

. . .

**T**he halls were carved of stone and air and dim light, like sun seen through the mist. And the face of Mandos was calm and unreadable like the surface of Mirrormere, and for a moment Run felt fear, but it dissolved quickly, because for all the sternness, the face of Mandos was not unkind.

She stood still, holding the breath she no longer had, waiting for the judgement, but none came. Instead there was sudden heat, and then a voice deep like mountain caverns and echoing like the sound of hammer against anvil in dwarven halls.

"It is a small grace I ask," said the voice, and Run slowly glanced up to see a figure of stone and fire, and for all the jewels and treasure he had forged, Aulë's robes were simple, and for all the fire, the look on his face was gentle.

"Many years from now and right this very moment your wife is asking me for the very same thing," Mandos spoke, his voice deep like a well but soft like water and tears. "And I will not refuse, not when Ilúvatar himself did not refuse you his blessing. But tell me, Aulë, why is it you plead for her? Herbs are Yavanna's domain."

"But stone is mine, and I am here because she melted stone," Aulë said and smiled down at her, and an aura of firelight seemed to bloom around him, but it was not ominous, but warm like a hearth.

Mandos looked at her also. "This is a blessing you will have to wait for," he said. "But in due time, you will be granted it. But there is the question of the wait itself, for even though time here passes differently, time there will not stop." Even though a hood was obscuring his eyes from view, if felt as if he was looking through her eyes straight into her very soul. "There is a price for every knowledge, Run of Ered Luin, and to wait will mean to learn."

She bowed her head shortly in a nod. "Some herbs are bitter, and yet they do heal. I will accept the knowledge and the wait, Lord Mandos, if that is the way."

"Once more and for the last time I warn you, and think well before you answer, for you will wish never to know some of the things you are about to see."

"She knows the tales," said another voice, soft like the rustle of summer grass on the meadows of Ered Luin. And when Run glanced at the owner of the voice, Yavanna's eyes in her luminous face were two wells of life. "And when the time comes, she will remember the right ones, and though it will not sweeten the regrets, it will nonetheless make them bearable."

Slowly, Mandos nodded once. "If you say yes, Run of Ered Luin, know this, as it is revealed to my eyes: there will be grave mistakes, and much pain, but even this Ilúvatar will reforge in his fire, and in time it will bring some good."

"My answer, then, Lord Mandos," said Run quietly, "is yes."

. . .

**D**uring daytime she tended Yavanna's gardens, and the Lady of the Flowers was like life and laughter, and no sorrow could reach anyone in her presence. But evenings and nights she spent in the halls of Mandos, and not able to enter either those meant for elves or for dwarves, endlessly she wandered, studying the tapestries Mandos' wife tirelessly weaved as history went on.

There were grand tapestries, full of ornaments and sometimes even memorable words, and names of places and of people, and those were tales of heroic battles and bravery and sacrifices, and among them was also the image of Lúthien's sacrifice and of the moment the elven maid had sung to Mandos.

There were also countless other tapestries, slightly smaller, but those seemed even more lovingly weaved, and depicted stories of common folk, and of smaller everyday battles, and of joys and sorrows and pain and happiness. And there Run found familiar images, for there was a girl in Mirkwood and a house under a great oak, and the girl's parents sitting with their daughter and laughing with her. There was an old man in the woods, tending a wolf's broken leg. There was a young woman in Bree and a bitter dwarven smith, and a forge, and a mithril bead. There was a dwarven princess in exile, and in her lap two children, and her husband's arms around them all. There was a dwarven king playing his harp, and two dwarven brothers playing viols, and a human woman dancing.

There was a mithril bead clasped onto curly hair for the second time, and a kiss that was no promise and yet more binding that any promise would have been. There was a kitchen in a little house, flames in the fireplace and pipe smoke in the air, and a memory than was not meant to be but had happened anyway. There were Ered Luin mountain meadows, and dwarven halls carved of stone, and filled with music and children's laughter. There was a fair-haired girl picking herbs in the woods and singing.

There was a dwarven king standing alone on a rocky ledge, his eyes set on the horizon, looking for something he was never to find again. There was a fair-haired young woman dancing. There was a dwarven princess watching her brother teaching her sons how to fight. There was a young dwarven prince securing his brother's braid, an iron clasp in his hand and another in his own hair.

There was a middle-aged fair-haired woman lying in bed, her skin pale and covered with sweat, but her face was calm, and there was an amused smile on her lips. There was a dwarven king telling his nephews the tales of the lost realm, and there was a glint in his eyes that was yearning, but not only for the home of old, but also for the lost treasures. There was a key and a map, and in a dark place there was dust that had been the bones of a lost king and father.

There was a grey-robed wizard and a halfling, and a company of thirteen dwarves, an exiled king their leader, and two brothers among them, and in their hair among mithril there was iron. There was darkness and danger, water and air, and elves and men. And then there was dragon fire, and a city in flames, and a black arrow. And there were flames of greed and pride burning in the heart of a king under the mountain, and a makeshift crown on his head, but his halls were empty and his kingdom was ash. There was a flash of the Arkenstone and a flash of madness in the eyes of the dwarven king, and for a moment they were one and the same, and soundlessly Run pleaded with Aulë and Yavanna and Ilúvatar himself, but the tapestries showed only what was already done, and there was bitter pain in knowing no pleas could ever change that.

There was a great battle, spears and arrows and axes down on the ground and eagles in the sky, and there was blood. There was a dwarven king, and the crown on his head was a circlet of blood, but the reflections in his eyes were sunlight, not the glimmer of the Arkenstone, and in his hair there was a mithril bead. And there were two brothers, their armour stained red, iron clasps in their hair stained red, their hands clasped together tightly in a last desperate effort. There was an anxious dwarven princess, waiting for her sons and brother and pleading with Mahal for their safe return. And at that last tapestry the tears that had been in Run's eyes finally dripped onto her cheeks, and she hid her face in her hands and wept, for now she knew the price of the wait, and never had her tears been more bitter.

And then there was one more tapestry, a dwarven king on his deathbed, an old friend and a wizard by his side, and yet his eyes were looking at neither of them but at the woman leaning over him. Her shape was barely visible for she was not there, but for the dwarven king she was real, and truly at his side in that moment, and Run's heart ached at the sight.

And then there was the fresh scent of summer herbs and a voice sweet like a rustle of leaves in spring said: "It is time."

Run turned.

. . .

II

**Life**

**. . .**

**H**is forehead was hot with fever, his wounds were burning, and he felt like he was on fire, and it seemed strangely appropriate to end in fire when Mahal had moulded the First Fathers, Durin his ancestor among them, in flames. Cool hands touched his temples, bringing relief, and maybe it was a trick of the light, but he thought someone leaned over him.

"Sleep, Thorin," whispered a voice from his past, or maybe his memories echoed the words.

"Mizimel," he breathed with parched lips, before slipping into fevered dreams.

. . .

"It means 'jewel', doesn't it?" asked Gandalf quietly, sitting vigil beside Thorin.

"The jewel of all jewels," said Balin.

"The Arkenstone?" asked the wizard sombrely.

"Maybe," replied Balin thoughtfully, recalling a tale a certain healer had told him years ago.

Both sat beside Thorin, who, despite many wounds, was still clinging to life. He did not regain full consciousness, but sometimes an intelligible, muttered word escaped him, and it seemed both to Balin and Gandalf that uneasy dreams were plaguing Thorin's last sleep.

To Thorin, it was different.

. . .

**H**is forehead was hot, his skin burning, and he felt like he was on fire, and when he opened his eyes he saw that he was in a forge. A bitter laugh escaped his lips when he realised that this was Mahal's forge, and it looked like in the legend because the legend described it so.

"Am I dead?" he asked.

"Not yet, Thorin Oakenshield," said a well-known voice.

She was wearing the robes he remembered she always had, and there was a green kerchief tied around her head. She looked exactly as he remembered, but he could not focus his gaze on her, and because of the heat of the forge her silhouette seemed to flicker and quiver like a reflection in the water.

He felt a weight in his palm, and looked down to see he was holding the Arkenstone. Recalling the legend, he offered the jewel to her, but she only shook her head.

"I seek no jewels, Majesty," she said. A harp appeared in her hands, his very own, and when she struck the strings, he felt the pang echoing in his chest, in his heart, and he remembered.

"Mizimel," he whispered hoarsely.

He let the Arkenstone slip from his hand onto the stone beneath his feet, and the jewel shattered into a thousand stars which fell onto the stone like rain, and turned into water and flowed into the shape of the river Lhûn.

Only it was not the river Lhûn but the River Running, and he was standing in the halls of Erebor, alone.

"I wish you had been here..." he muttered, looking at the still splendid remains of the past glory.

"Thorin," whispered the voice softly into his ear, and he closed his eyes as warm hands reached around his shoulders and touched his chest right over his heart. "I never left."

He choked on something that might have been a sob.

"You never saw me, because the light of the Arkenstone blinded you," she whispered.

And even though he knew that should he open his eyes, he would see nothing in this dream, her arms around him felt real, and so did her breath on his cheek.

"You never saw me, but I was here all the time," whispered the voice softly.

When he opened his eyes, he was standing on a high mountain meadow in Ered Luin, under a blinding sun. There was someone standing before him, but he could only see a silhouette outlined against the light.

"You are dying," she softly answered his unasked question.

"Dís..." he remembered suddenly.

"She is stronger than you. She always has been," she said, and there was some measure of peace in recognising the words were true.

"When?" he asked.

"When you are ready."

He took a breath and nodded, and when he began closing his eyes, he felt her fingertips drawing his eyelids shut, gentle and light as feathers.

. . .

**T**he halls were carved of stone and air, and he could see the gates and the threshold, and knew the way, and yet he lingered. He felt the weight of Mandos' gaze upon him, watching from the heights of his throne.

"This is a small grace I ask," said a sweet voice that was like the soft rustle of leaves on a spring morning.

Thorin bowed his head in respect. Then he glanced up, and she looked just like the legend described her, slim like a birch, and her eyes were like rain and laughter, two wells of life.

"This is not changing fate," she added. "Time runs differently here than in Arda. As time runs differently for the First and the Second Children of Eru, and for the children of Aulë, whom Ilúvatar blessed, heeding the plea of their creator." Yavanna smiled, and the smile was both like a summer dawn and the last light of Durin's Day. "Grant them your mercy and blessing so that for this moment in between their times could meet, it is all I ask."

"Many years before and right this very moment your husband is asking me for the very same thing," said Mandos. "And how could I refuse your plea when Ilúvatar himself granted you your wish when you pleaded with him?" Mandos' face softened. "But tell me, Yavanna, why is it you asking for him? Stone and iron are Aulë's domain."

"I am here because of a flower cast in iron," Yavanna said, then looked down at Thorin and smiled at him. "The halls of your fathers are waiting for you, Thorin son of Thráin son of Thrór, heir of Durin. But they are not the only ones waiting for you." Yavanna walked down the stairs leading to Mandos' throne, and with each step she seemed to diminish a little, and when she stopped beside him she was the height of a human girl or an elven maid, her hair flowing like willow branches on the wind. "You are no Mahal," she said softly, without contempt. "Nor is she me. But you shared fire and life, and as you weaved many stories about us, it is only fair that we should now weave you a story." Her smile was like the summer sun upon the mountains and meadows of Ered Luin. "Close your eyes, Thorin son of Thráin."

He did.

. . .

**W**hen he opened his eyes, there were fires and flames, but only warmth, and his skin was not burning, and the fire was not threatening but welcoming, and he recognised he was in Mahal's forges. For a moment, he spotted someone at the entrance, a figure of stone and fire, and by his side stood Yavanna, smiling benevolently. And Thorin knew he saw Mahal himself, and fell to his knees.

After a moment he heard a rustle of wings, and looked up and, seeing he was alone, he rose. There was a thrush perched on the anvil, cocking its head and looking at him curiously.

Thorin stood motionless, still like a stone statue. There was a movement at the gate, and then in she came, wearing the familiar robe, the green kerchief tied around her head. But her hair was plaited, adorned with iron clasps bearing the symbol of Yavanna, and among them was a single mithril bead, bearing the markings of the clan of Durin.

She approached him, smiling, and then he felt her fingers wiping the tears off his cheeks.

"Why do you weep, Thorin?" she asked softly.

Even with his eyes still wet, he smiled. "Why do you?" he asked, wiping the tears off her face.

Then her arms went around his neck and her hands into his hair, and he held her tightly to him. He knew time had not stood still, but for those few moments it ceased to exist altogether, and there was only the warmth of the fires, and the warmth of her enfolded in his arms.

"Mizimel," he whispered into her hair, his voice strangled with emotion, because in that single moment everything that had gone wrong was put right. "Mizimel..."

"They are waiting for you," she said quietly.

"Yes." Reluctantly, he let her pull away, but held her gently by the shoulders.

She touched his cheek. "This is not the end, Thorin. Someday, time will be over, and so will the wait."

Still, he would not let go, and her palms cradled his face. When he finally met her gaze, she smiled, a smile that pierced his heart, and yet brought him peace. "It's time." Her forehead touched his. "Close your eyes, Thorin," she whispered softly.

He did.


End file.
